


Freedom Is Another Word

by LadyMerlin



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bad Parenting, Estrangement, F/M, Family Drama, Freedom, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Illegitimacy, Panic Attacks, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-29 20:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: Kyouya hears the news a full twelve hours before the official announcement is made. It’s a courtesy call from his fathers’ head of staff, and he knows instantly that it’s the last courtesy he will ever receive.





	Freedom Is Another Word

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Please note that this story involves a brief description of a panic attack, and also revolves around a parent disowning a child. The implication (spoilers!) is that Kyouya is a child of infidelity, and this is something his living parent could not accept. I tried to find a tag for this but "estrangement" is as close as I got.

Kyouya hears the news a full twelve hours before the official announcement is made. It’s a courtesy call from his fathers’ head of staff, and he knows instantly that it’s the last courtesy he will ever receive.

He supposes he lost the right to expect any such thing the moment his father – the moment Ootori-sama discovered that Kyouya doesn’t have a single drop of Ootori blood in him. He is, as expected, furious beyond words. Neither of his brothers have contacted him, though they no-doubt knew about it at least a few hours before. They’re step-brothers now, he supposes, if even that. Their own livelihoods depend on the results of their blood-tests, so perhaps they’re busy too. It’s interesting, from an academic perspective; the effect of blood on loyalty. He doesn’t expect anyone has told Fuyumi. She’ll hear it on the news, like everyone else.

No one has explained – and no one will – but the rules are simple. This is hardly an uncommon thing in their world.

He will be allowed to retain the Ootori name (it would be gauche to make him change his ID and passport details), but it will be made clear to everyone who is anyone that he is not of the Family. He will be immediately written out of the estate and will never stand to inherit anything. He may be allowed to work for one of his siblings in a limited capacity, but he will never be allowed to progress beyond a certain level of management. He will never speak with the authority of an Ootori son, or even someone who had married into the family. His – Ootori-sama will never speak to him again. Since he does not know who his father was, he is now an orphan.

He will never go home to the Ootori estate again.

Out of everything, that is maybe what hurts the most. People might think him unfeeling, but he is ultimately a human being. He has ties of affection to his childhood home, just like everyone else. He thinks he might have parted more fondly with his bedroom and his books and the portraits of his mother if he had known that he would never see them again. The portraits will certainly be destroyed soon, if they haven’t already been burned, and he is effectively homeless now, with nowhere and no-one-place to call home.

Thankfully his mother is gone now, to a place where such things cannot hurt her. The sins of the parent will be revisited upon him no doubt, but Kyouya can take care of himself as long as he doesn’t have to worry about his mother being held hostage. This is a small mercy.

Within minutes of the courtesy call, he receives an email from the school. Idly he wonders if it had been meticulously timed. He can’t imagine what would have happened if he had received the email before he received the phone call. He wondered if he would have accepted the news so easily, coming from someone other than Ootori-sama’s head of staff. He has been allocated a dormitory room in one of the buildings scattered around the campus. It’s nothing like his old room, but he could hardly have expected equal treatment. In any case, a dorm room in Ouran Academy is far finer than accommodation almost anywhere else in the city, and he is not ungrateful.

He knows it’s just another obligation that his ex-family has against him; another debt that must be repaid. For blood, the coffers run freely. Everyone else must remember that nothing in life comes for free. He knows more-or-less the cost of his education, his living expenses, his uniform, his comportment. He knows the cost of his piano lessons, the cost of his electronic equipment, and roughly the amount of money he has spent on his books – he knows the value assigned to his continued existence, even if the exact monetary sum requires more assessment. He’ll have to repay his dues before he can truly spread his wings and be free. Everything he has ever spent to date is now money spent that did not belong to him; a debt he did not know he was incurring.

For the first time, Kyouya knows what it’s like to have a running counter in the back of his head. It’s unpleasant, even though he knows how to deal with debt, and he knows he’s already earned enough on the stock market to pay off most of what he owes, quietly stashed in an account in the Caymans. He’ll spend even more money getting through university, but as long as the Ootori accounts don’t start charging him interest until he turns twenty-one, he’ll be fine. Even if they do, he’ll manage, somehow.

Nevertheless, he regrets that this is the shadow Haruhi has been living under, since that fateful day she broke the vase. He regrets that he hasn’t done much to absolve her of the weight, instead adding to her dues casually, inconsiderate of the effect they might have had on her psyche. He owes her an apology, though she’ll no doubt wave it off.

He gives himself a break from late-night studies. He doesn’t have all his books and materials, so there’s really no point. Anyway, his entire life has been upended; he thinks he can afford it, even though realistically his financial situation now is more dire than it has ever been in his life. Even though there will be no staff to wake him, he doesn’t set his alarm when he lies down in an unfamiliar bed to sleep, in an unfamiliar room. He could borrow a spare gym uniform or even nightclothes to sleep in, but he doesn’t intend to attend classes the next morning, and someone will courier his stuff to him soon. By tomorrow everyone will know, and it’s not like anyone will get any studying done before noon, at the very least. He sleeps in just his boxers, because there’s no one to scold him for it now.

Kyouya wakes up at the break of dawn as he always does, but doesn’t get out of bed. When the clock ticks past 7:30am, he can visualise everyone downloading the latest news bulletins on their smart phones and blackberries. He can imagine the hush coming over everyone at their respective breakfast tables; the horror on his friends’ faces. He wonders how Tamaki will react, or the twins, or Mori-sempai.

He wonders what Haruhi will say, now that he’s now a commoner like her, or as close as it gets in this school. He wonders if he will develop a thick skin like hers, and finds that he almost looks forward to it. How nice it must be to have armour which cannot be penetrated by mere words. How unpleasant must have been her experiences. Kyouya thinks of himself as stronger than most, but Haruhi is stronger still. He will have many lessons to learn from her.

The first person to knock on his door is, predictably, Haruhi. He considers dressing, but honestly she’s the least likely of the lot to be affected by a shirtless man. Considering that most – if not all of his friends are often shirtless men themselves, this really speaks to the quality and nature of their upbringing, but that’s a thought for another day, when his friends will be there to hear it.

He’d never dared call them that before, for fear that it would be deemed a weakness, and somehow get back to Ootori-sama, but that’s what they are. He’s known most of them for a long time; he’s known Tamaki almost his whole life, and he can easily imagine how they would have – how they are reacting.

Tamaki is probably skipping classes, upset on Kyouya’s behalf at what he perceives he has lost. In a couple of hours he’ll gather the courage to call his own father, to see if anything can be done for Kyouya. The twins will be thinking up ways to cheer him up, planning to probably invite him to live with them over the holidays if Tamaki doesn’t. Mori and Hunny are more limited, because their families are strongly allied with the Ootori-clan, professionally, but Hunny’s plans are surprisingly efficient and effective when he puts his mind to things. They’ll be coming up with a plan to break ties with the Ootori-clan – a plan which will take many years of plotting, and some financial detriment to their own kin. For now, they will all keep their distance out of respect for him and his person. All of them, except Haruhi, to whom the best luxury she can offer is that of her time and emotional support.

He’s only known Haruhi for a year, but he has no doubt that she’s the one standing outside his door now, with a steamed bun filled with red-bean paste, wrapped in a napkin for breakfast. Red bean is his favourite. He opens the door.

“Good Morning, Kyouya-sempai.” She holds out the bun like an offering, and he accepts it, inviting her in without a word. She doesn’t blink at his lack of appropriate attire. She’s wearing glasses; it’s too early in the day for contacts. She doesn’t look as unearthly without them, or half as fragile.

“Haruhi,” he replies, and tears the bun in half, offering the bit with more filling back to her. She accepts, and bites into it almost absently. It’s not home-made and it’s not even hot. She probably defrosted it overnight and stuck it in the microwave in the morning, so it hasn’t survived the bus-ride to school. It doesn’t taste half bad for something that came frozen out of a bag and probably cost less than 50Y per piece.

There’s a small wicker basket of complimentary teas on the dresser top, next to a miniature electric kettle. He sets it to boil and studies the paper packets of single-use tea-bags. “Those are fancier than the ones I’m used to, but I’d say stick with green tea. I find that the fruit teas and flavoured ones are always a little artificial,” Haruhi offers. She licks a smudge of red-bean paste off her thumb and wipes it on her trousers. It’s a little gross, but not really. Kyouya returns the orange-flavoured tea to the basket and fishes out two packets of the green tea, before he realises there’s only one mug.

For some reason, that’s what finally makes it click.

He rips the paper packet with trembling hands, drops the bag into the mug, and retreats to a chair before his knees give out beneath him. His fingers clench into fists, and for the first time in his life he feels like a seventeen year old, with nothing but uncertainty stretching out into the horizon in front of him. He’s got plans, but no way of knowing whether they will work. He’s got his brains, he’s got some friends, he’s got the clothes on his back, and that’s it. There’s nothing else. He doesn’t even have a second mug from which to serve a cup of tea. He’s starting from scratch.

The kettle clicks off – no whistle, just a click – and he can hear Haruhi pouring boiling water into the mug, but he can’t see her. He can’t see anything except his own clenched fists in front of him, between his legs, and even they’re swimming. Haruhi’s legs appear in his line of sight but he doesn’t look up. He thinks he’s shaking. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and they are steadier than anything else in the world, steadier even than the ground beneath his feet. He might as well as not be wearing glasses, for how well he can see. She says something but he can’t hear it either, so he doesn’t reply.

Then the next thing he knows, she’s stepping even closer to him, between his thighs, and her arms are going around his shoulders and her hands are on the back of his head, pulling him into a hug. It’s entirely inappropriate considering he’s more naked than he’s ever been in his life, but he goes with it, hugs her back, presses his face into her stomach, takes what is offered so easily. She’s not yet wearing her blazer, and her shirt is soft and familiar to the touch – it’s exactly what he’s worn for so many years now. She’s soft underneath it, under his hands, and still somehow the strongest person he knows. He shakes, and she strokes his hair and lets him.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that; isn’t sure when the shaking turns into trembling and then back into shaking. He isn’t sure if he could admit even to himself that he’s cried more in the past indeterminable-period-of-time than he’s cried in his entire life. Haruhi has just stood there, patting his back. She hasn’t flinched from him a single time, while he grieves the loss of everything he’s ever known, the loss of his entire family in one fell swoop, and acknowledges the overwhelming fear of the unknown future. He thinks she got to the conclusion even before he did. She’s always known that the future is uncertain, while they have all taken their various safety nets for granted. She doesn’t turn from him, even when he’s at his ugliest and most vulnerable.

When he’s done – and he’s sure he’s done because he feels his hackles settling and his shoulders un-tensing and his hands spreading into palms instead of fists on the small of Haruhi’s back – she steps away. Turns her back and steps – there isn’t enough room to walk – towards the dresser. The tea is probably over-steeped and cold by now, but it gives him a chance to dry his eyes, which is probably what she’d intended anyway.

She takes a sip, makes a face, and steps back into the space between his legs before passing the mug to him. He doesn’t bother turning the mug before he takes a sip, uncaring that he’s drinking from the same cup as Haruhi. His – Ootori-sama would _never_ have allowed it. There’s probably something profound about it, about sharing things, but for once Kyouya’s brain is too occupied to pursue the thought any further.

They pass the mug back and forth until the murky-green liquid is gone, and she bends down to put the empty mug on the floor. She doesn’t move away from him, and doesn’t lift her hand from his hair, so he ends up ducking a little to avoid breaking the point of contact.

It’s a little funny, because she clearly doesn’t notice what she’s doing, and then flushes a little bit when she does realise. _That’s_ even funnier, and he feels it bubbling up inside of him, the humour of the situation, warm in his belly like the street noodles she’d made them try once, and he’s about to bite it back when he realises he doesn’t have to.

For the first time in his life, there’s no one watching him that he needs to impress. No one whose affection he’s vying for. Or at least, no one who’d disapprove of his laughter. So he laughs. He opens his mouth and lets the laughter out, and it’s rusty and awkward and he’s possibly losing his mind because he’s still sad – devastated – but he can’t stop laughing at the way Haruhi refused to let go of him even for the split second it took to put the mug on the floor and he’s not laughing because it’s funny. He’s laughing because of what it means.

She looks at him with unfairly huge eyes, a familiar mix of fondness and concern clearly writ on her face, and pats his head until he’s done with that too. Of everyone in the world he thinks she can best afford to miss classes, so neither of them pay attention to the chiming of the bell for morning assembly.

“Is this what it feels like?” he asks, when an entire dictionary of words have slotted themselves back neatly into their places in his head, and there’s enough air in his lungs to make sounds that aren’t nonsensical.

“What,” she asks, even though she knows and he knows she knows. He presses his fingers on his back a little more firmly, stretching his hands. The curve of her back is a perfect resting place for them, like his hands were made for her body.

“Freedom,” he whispers back, and tamps down on the shaking fear that ratchets through him again, at the thought of it. The word is too big to comprehend. He doesn’t need an answer to continue. “I didn’t know it was so scary.”

“It’s terrifying,” she replies, matching his low volume. It’s no wonder she’s wiser than all of them put together. For someone to have faced this fear from such a young age… He’s always known it, intellectually, but under his palms Haruhi has a spine of steel.

“There’s so much I can do, now,” he replies, and he can see the conversation falling into place in his head, if only Haruhi decides to play along. There’s fear in that too, in the not-knowing, but here there is also trust. She won’t let him fall too hard.

“Like what,” she says, and she doesn’t need an answer to that either. It wasn’t a question. He can see the knowledge in her eyes, now that they’ve drawn apart a little, enough to make eye-contact. She can see the same conversation he can, falling into place, the little puzzle-pieces leading up to the conclusion. He’s always liked that about her – she can keep up with him.

He takes his time and doesn’t hurry. While he’s sitting in the chair she’s a little taller than him, so he pushes the chair back and stands, but doesn’t let her move back. He keeps his hands on the small of her back and steps closer yet when her own hands slide down to fall on the sides of his waist. She doesn’t flinch or hesitate to touch his bare skin, and her hands are like brands on his body. She can’t reach his head when they’re both standing, and he misses her fingers in his hair. Once he’s sure she isn’t going to step away, he uses one hand to cup her jaw, curls his fingers so the touch the tips of her hair.

These are all techniques which they’d learned when first starting the Host Club. He’s used them countless times before, but he’s never meant them more than he means them now. After all that build-up, _months_ of tension, the kissing itself is easy. It’s a tilt of the jaw, a press of tongue and a hint of teeth. It’s a parting of lips and seductive heat and cheap green tea and sweet adzuki. It’s amusing to think that they’d indirectly kissed while sharing a mug, but there’s a world of difference between swapping spit and what they’re doing now.

There are no dramatic dips because she’s not leaning away from him – he doesn’t have to chase. She’s leaning up and into him just as he’s leaning down. There are no wobbly knees. He is as sure of this as he has been of anything. His heart is pounding like a drum, but that’s probably because one small hand has come to rest on his chest, supporting Haruhi on her tiptoes. She’s precariously posed, but he won’t let her fall. The kiss is deep, and he feels everything echoing inside him, like he’s been hollowed out and is starting afresh. It’s steady and rhythmic, and neither of them pull away. Not until Haruhi runs out of air, and even then, she only parts from him for a little bit. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss until they get tired of standing.

When they sit on his bed, she studies him, and then draws off his glasses. In the past, he’s done worse things to more influential people for playing with his spectacles. With Haruhi he just blinks, and remembers the first time Tamaki had taken off Haruhi’s glasses. He wonders if he looks as vulnerable now as she did then. He supposes it just goes to show how misleading looks can be.

His hair is ungelled and soft, tousled from sleep. Hers is silky and short and perfectly in place. She turns to put his glasses carefully on the bedside table, where they won’t be crushed by accident.

“I have nothing to offer you,” he ventures, because that is an honest truth. Any one of the boys could make her a queen, should she so desire. He will do well for himself – for them, if she wants – but he will never be as independently wealthy as he’d been when he was the potential Ootori-heir.

“I have everything I need Kyouya. I don’t want anything more,” she replies, and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, tiny fingers tracing his jaw.

“I want to give you a good life,” he replies, and he knows that if a good life was one that didn’t involve him, he’d do his best to step away from her. He doesn’t know if he’d succeed, but he’d try for sure.

“I will make my own good life and I will do my best for yours,” she says, but her smile is even wider. He wonders what Tamaki would say if he were here, because he’s always been good with words where Kyouya’s primary forte is numbers and sense. He’d probably say something about decking Haruhi in gold and gilded jewels, but that’s terribly impractical and she’d hate it anyway.

“I can offer you my time,” he says, finally. “My loyalty. My hard work. I’m not good at comforting, but I’m willing to try. I probably can’t shield you from the world, but I can stand behind you and catch you if you fall. I’ve never done my own laundry or cooked my own food, but I’m willing to learn.” He’s dead earnest about that. Gone are the days when he was proud of not knowing what instant coffee is. Gone are the days when it wasn’t noteworthy that he hadn’t boiled an egg in his life. Today he is ashamed.

“This isn’t a job interview,” she says, and her fingers brush against his lips. “I’m not asking you to change. I mean, I’d appreciate if you could help out, but I’m not asking for anything practical here. I’m not looking for a father, Kyouya.” He kisses the tips of her fingers and they get distracted for a bit, kissing until he lies down and pulls her on top of him, in a strange parody of that one night they’d spent on the beach.

“You are nothing if not eminently practical, Haruhi,” he says, and she sits down on his hips, thighs on either side of his body. It’s… it’s hot, but he’s not aroused. It’s not that kind of situation, even though he can feel the cage of her bra through her shirt when she leans down and presses her chest against his. He doesn’t have to grit his teeth or clench his fist in the bedsheets to control himself. This is not a sexual situation, nor is it a shoujo manga. She drops her elbows on either side of his head and smiles at him. She’s really stupidly cute.

“Love is not practical, Kyouya,” she replies, and kisses him again. Perhaps she’s right. He would happily forgo every cubic centimetre of air in the room if it means that she doesn’t stop kissing him. “It’s not a contract, or a deal, or a mutually beneficial agreement. Sometimes you get more and sometimes I do. Sometimes we sacrifice, and there’s no profit involved at all.”

And that might be the easiest part to agree to. He’s wanted to do things for Haruhi for no good reason for the longest time. He wants to spoil her, but he’d never allowed himself to, claiming that it didn’t suit their respective images, and that she’d never allow it anyway. Now that he may be allowed to, he can’t even afford that. He doesn’t know where he’ll take her for dates, or what they’ll do when every dollar and cent is going to count. How is he going to buy her fatty tuna which melts on her tongue, or African teas, or seasonal peaches for her to enjoy? He won’t be able to afford frivolities, but he knows with bone-deep certainty that at this point Haruhi is a necessity like air, not something that can be spared.

She kisses him again, and it’s really stunningly good when she sinks into him like that, all wet heat and clacking teeth and bumped noses. They’re supposed to be the suavest kids in the school but this isn’t something they’ve practiced. This is real, and for all intents and purposes, Haruhi is the first girl he’s kissed that he actually, personally likes. It’s ground-breaking. Earth-shattering. Revolutionary.

“I don’t know many real things,” he says, and he’s talking about more than the real-life survival skills now and she knows it. “So much of my life has been make-believe. I don’t know much at all, but I think I can learn. You don’t have to teach me, but I want to learn, with you.”

“You’re lucky I’m a nerd,” she replies, but she’s smiling. “That you make learning sound so attractive.”

“Your glasses are cute, too,” he says, almost a non-sequitur but not quite, and wraps his arms around her body in the most honest hug he can manage when he’s shirtless and more aroused than he’d like to be, around his new girlfriend. She hugs back, totally unphased, and they stay like that until the rest of the world comes banging at their door, led by one noisy blonde best-friend and an entourage of clichés.

There are problems to be solved and answers to be given and futures to be planned, but for the moment, they’re okay. They’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> It's the year of our lord 2k18 and here I am watching an anime from fuckin' 2006, when, back in the day, wild horses couldn't have parted me from Dramione (Drarry?) smut - I'm not sure which is worse. I've watched a grand total of 12 episodes (in less than half a day) and am dreading the fact that there's (a) no season 2 and (b) an episode apparently titled "the dissolution of the Host Club" (this is what I get for reading fanfic half way through the series what the fuck self, what the fuck) *grows mushrooms in closet* 
> 
> It is 6am on a Sunday morning as I post this draft and I have not slept in days. This is why I'm single. I'm gonna see if I can find an 8 million dollar vase to break. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos always help, though I realise the futility of appealing to a fandom that's *choked sob* more than a decade old. What the fuck, self. What the _fuck_.


End file.
